


Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Bijoux Disparus

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Object Insertion, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 22:21:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19029106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: "When the British Museum requested my services in recovering the stolen trunk, they would not tell me what was inside, and sternly warned me that the payment would not be rendered if I opened the trunk after recovering it. I’m counting on the fee to finance a season’s worth of operas at Covent Garden, so I dare not investigate further."(...and then Holmes investigates further anyway.)





	Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Bijoux Disparus

It was a well-earned quiet confederacy that my friend and colleague John Watson and myself were enjoying that late spring evening. Watson was reading one of his Clark Russell novels, I was catching up on the _Times_ , and the enormous brass-trimmed cedar trunk I’d recovered earlier that day was doing an excellent job of taking up space in the middle of the room. Occasionally Watson would glare at it, as if doing so would reveal its secrets, but to no avail. 

At last, he implored: “Holmes, you must tell me what is in that box. I’ve been waiting all day. I assumed that your delay in telling me was owed to your flair for the dramatic, but the hour has long come and gone for a memorable reveal.” 

I lowered my newspaper. “My dear Watson, I fear I cannot reveal to you the contents, on the grounds that I do not know, myself. When the British Museum requested my services in recovering the stolen trunk, they would not tell me what was inside – they promised to pay me whether they found the contents still within or not, but they sternly warned me that the payment would not be rendered if I opened the trunk after recovering it. I’m counting on the fee to finance a season’s worth of operas at Covent Garden, so I dare not investigate further.” 

Watson huffed, “So, I stayed up late in anticipation of an exciting reveal for nothing.” 

“That is entirely on you,” I said. 

“Fair enough, but now I am going to bed. Good night, Holmes.” 

“Good night,” I said, and shook my newspaper in such a way as to make it seem that I was going back to reading it, though in actuality I was watching Watson clap his book shut, rise from his chair, and make his way to the door. Sometimes at this time of night, I liked to imagine Watson sauntering towards my bedroom instead, turning back once to give me a profligate glance, inviting me to follow him. Or I pictured myself accompanying him up to his room. Of course, I would never dare take the slightest action toward making such a thing a reality. Watson was a soldier, and if that were not enough, middle-class; there was no doubt that he found such inclinations as mine to be dishonourable.  

There was no harm in dwelling on thoughts of a more unconventional life with Watson for a few minutes, but I soon needed a distraction to keep me from descending into melancholy – I was particularly vulnerable at the end of a case. That was when my thoughts turned to the trunk. 

I was familiar enough with the design of such an object that I could think of three methods by which to open it – unfastening the bottom, removing the hinges, or just plain picking the locks. Each had its advantages and disadvantages, and I pondered each, with particular consideration paid to how obvious it would be to the staff of the British Museum that I had been tampering with the trunk. 

I then forced myself to stop this new line of thinking as well, for it was no more productive than the one about Watson. I stood up and went into my bedroom to begin my evening routine. I changed into my nightshirt and dressing gown, poured some water into the basin on the table... 

…and then went back out into the sitting room. The temptation was simply too great. I was bored and curious and I just had to know what treasure the Museum had been so desperate to recover but so determined to keep hidden from anyone's eyes, even mine. 

With some effort, I dragged the trunk into my bedroom, so there would be no chance of Watson or Mrs. Hudson stumbling upon my transgression. I determined that I could pick these particular locks without it being obvious to the untrained eye – they were in good enough condition that they were unlikely to disintegrate if manipulated. Also, there did not appear to be any seals or other devices which would give away my snooping. 

I proceeded with care, and even if there had been nothing inside the trunk, the click of each of the locks surrendering provoked a reflexive satisfaction in me. But when I lifted the lid, I beheld an exciting sight indeed: a dozen or more wooden boxes, of varying sizes and ages, all waiting for me to open them and reveal their contents. I felt like a child on Christmas morning. 

When I opened the very first box, it became immediately apparent why the British Museum did not want anyone to know the contents of the trunk. Inside was a bronze object whose purpose was obvious. According to the meticulously handwritten card inside, it was crafted in China in the second century before Christ’s birth. I opened a second box, and found another item of a similar size and shape, this one made of ivory, and labeled “France, 18 c.” 

These items were, as the French call them, _bijoux indiscretes_ , or _consolateurs_ , though since at least the days of Shakespeare, we English have had a clumsier word: dildo. Whether that term comes from the Latin _dilatare_ meaning “to open wide,” or the Italian _diletto_ meaning “delight,” it is not certain, and probably does not matter. In any case, this trunk was loaded with them, a collection spanning ten centuries and all manner of materials – polished stone, lacquered wood, buffalo horn. Some were stylized, with flourishes that gave them the appearance of a whole humanoid form, or a creature of some kind, or a scepter; others bore a startling resemblance to an actual organ. None were the latest models, which were made of India rubber, nor were any constructed of more perishable materials, such as leather. I knew that the British Museum, though they would never display such items as this, had crates upon crates of them locked away from prying eyes and delicate sensibilities; this was only the tiniest sampling. 

I thought then of Watson – because I always thought of Watson when confronted with the erotic. Watson was the only person who had ever provoked such feelings in me. He did not know this, of course, for to reveal these sentiments would be to compromise everything – my work, my reputation, our friendship. But in quiet moments, I indulged in them. And this I did now. I held the phalluses in my hand, examined the craftsmanship, and wondered if perhaps this one, or perhaps that one, more closely resembled the noble and virile instrument that my Watson undoubtedly possessed. 

There was one that I was more drawn to than any other. It was one of the more recently-crafted specimens, solid, seamless, and smooth, made of Bristol glass, and very realistic. This one that I favoured was slightly bigger than my own was when at a full stand, and it had a subtle upward sweep which mine lacked. After some consideration, I determined that this one must be closest to Watson’s. 

I held it, warming it with my hands as I regarded it, imagining what I would do if I had the opportunity to hold Watson’s, and take whatever liberty I so desired. I was inclined to do something with this object, to feel it on my body the way I wished to feel Watson’s flesh against me. Bold enough to proceed but bashful enough to blush about it, I opened my dressing gown, then rubbed this facsimile along the hollow of my throat, down to the notch between my collarbones, across my chest. I retraced this path a few times, allowing my mind to wander and my blood to heat. Then, when I grew restless, I tugged my nightshirt aside so I could touch it to my own prick, which was now quite stiff. I gripped myself, holding my own length side by side with the dildo, comparing one to the other, feeling at once humbled and aroused by how much bigger it was. I turned it around so that it stood parallel and opposite to mine, the way Watson’s would if we were face-to-face. 

I thought of how, with this facsimile of Watson, I could experience something I’d desired but had never thought possible: I could learn what it felt like to have one inside me. I had long wondered how it felt, and saw now that I had an opportunity to satisfy my curiosity. 

It was so big, though – an object of this size was surely no place to begin. I carefully set aside my favourite and picked through the other articles until I found a more modestly-sized one that was smooth and appealing – it was ivory, thicker than one of my fingers but not so thick as two. Still, I would need something to help it go in. I discarded my dressing gown as I made my way to my little table, where I poked around in my disguise kit until I found my tin of cold cream. It was slick and greasy, and I believed it would do the job sufficiently well. 

I sat on the bed and looked at the tin for a long while, hesitant, but not so much so that I had any thought of setting it aside for another time. At last, I could stand my own dithering no longer, and smeared the cold cream over the tip of the smaller phallus, then laid on my back with my legs spread wide, my knees bent, and my feet flat on the mattress. I had not done anything like this before, but I felt I had enough anatomical knowledge to make a go of it. I clutched my bollocks and half-hard prick and lifted them slightly aside so I could fit the end of the dildo against my aperture. Blindly but with purpose, I slid it up and down until I could nudge the thing into the right place. It was slow going, as my body’s eagerness did not match that of my heart. But eventually it admitted the tip, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Surely that was the most difficult part. I continued to push, and with the help of the slippery cold cream it slid in, not easily but steadily. 

I felt very strange and sort of full, with only just half of it in me. I tried sitting up, to see if that would give me more leverage to push; it did not, so again I laid flat on my back, trying to relax. Then I tilted my pelvis to get a better angle to manipulate the dildo, and my heels lifted off the mattress as well. I pushed the thing in and out, slow and deliberate, feeling every sensation. The texture of it, especially the prominent ridge of the crown, was giving me unfamiliar and delightful stimulation, mostly right at my entrance. I pushed it back and forth for some time, amusing myself, and then when I thought myself brave again, I thrust it decidedly deeper. 

That’s when I felt the most astonishingly intense pleasure. It was like a sudden spark had ignited at the center of me, sending arrows of fire down my thighs and deep into my prick. I repeated my thrust, and it happened again. I rotated and manipulated the dildo, searching for the best way to give myself that sensation over and over. All the while, I gritted my teeth and twisted this way and that, fighting the urge to cry out. 

My prick, untouched and still at only a half-stand, was now drooling a continuous strand of fluid as I gave myself the most wonderful stimulation. I did it so much, I began to lose control of my lungs and throat, and a few grunts turned into a joyous cry. I silenced myself at the instant I was able, but not soon enough. I was utterly still for a moment, listening for the footsteps of an inquisitive person come to investigate, but heard nothing. 

I was overheated with exertion and pleasure, and slowly removed the dildo and set it aside before sitting up in bed and stripping off my nightshirt. Then I eyed the larger dildo, which still lay at my side. It made me think of Watson again, and I longed to feel something I could pretend was a part of him. Taking it up, I greased it, laid myself down, and tried to insert it. 

It did not seem so much bigger to my eyes, but to my body it was enormous, and again I resisted involuntarily. I cannot say that I persevered because I was courageous; rather, I was overwhelmed by my curiosity, my determination to capture an inkling of what Watson might feel like. After some struggle, I got the tip of it inside me, and groaned again with fullness and relief. Once I rediscovered that most gratifying spot, I moved the dildo with short strokes, keeping it close to where it felt best, rubbing more than thrusting. 

What a fool I was, not to control my noise. As I worked the thing eagerly inside myself, I squirmed and thrust and tried and sometimes failed to silently enjoy the electric feeling of it. I might have gone on all night making myself feel good in this way, but then I heard the squeak of my bedroom door opening, and the word “Holmes?” 

I froze. In a moment, Watson was leaning in the doorway and his eyes were upon me. There was absolutely no way I could make this look like anything other than what it was. I could do nothing at all, in fact, but stare Watson in the face, with the dildo inside me and my mouth open in shock. 

“I’m so sorry to intrude,” he said, slowly looking me up and down with obvious alarm in his eyes. “I heard noises, and thought you were in distress.” 

It must have been fairly plain to him at that point that this was not the case, but he made no move to excuse himself. Instead, he moved toward me, and it wasn’t as if I could do anything except remain perfectly still and study his expression. He seemed devoid of any judgment or repulsion – on the contrary, his eyes softened with desire the closer he came. His gaze brushed over in particular the streaks of glistening fluid across my belly and hip, and inquired, “How long have you been playing with yourself this way?” 

I swallowed. “I’m not sure. What is the time now?” 

Watson knelt at the side of my bed; he was so close to me now that I could feel his breath on my belly, and I shivered, feeling intensely my own naked vulnerability. He reached out and brushed my hands away from where they were situated between my thighs, and instead held the base of the dildo himself, lightly manipulating it. The moment he touched it, I felt a whole different kind of pleasure. I was no longer in complete control, and the surprises in each tiny movement sent fresh bolts of pleasure all through me. He smiled slyly at my jerking and grunting, and asked, “Is this what you like? Hm?” 

“Deeper,” I gasped. “I was trying to get it deeper.” I gazed at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, hardly believing that this man who was the object of my desire was now assisting me in such an intimate and indecent pastime. I think that Watson may have interpreted my parted lips as an invitation, for he bent down and kissed me, whilst his hand continued to work the dildo in and out of me. That first kiss, and every one thereafter, sent a pulse of heat into my belly no less intense than that provoked by the deep strokes of the dildo. Something about Watson’s tongue delving into my mouth made my stomach flip and my thighs quiver. 

He was hitting just the perfect spot now, and I let my arms fall to my sides, and my head dropped back down to the pillow as I breathed, “ _Yes_.” Having Watson do it was so much better, because each stroke was slightly unexpected but still precise and perfect. 

“Now, I could go on like this,” he said, “and I’d be happy to. But I could also instead introduce you to an instrument which is perhaps not as sizeable but which has a bit more life in it.” 

I could only nod silently, wide-eyed and slack-jawed. He was as unashamedly eager as I was, to my relief and delight; scrambling up onto the bed, he made a space for himself between my wantonly spread legs as he rucked up his nightshirt and showed me his stiff prick. 

I fumbled about until I found the tin of cold cream, then held it out to him with a shaking hand, and he grabbed it and applied it generously to himself. Just watching him handle his prick for the time it took to smear the cold cream on it was enough to make me think my heart would burst. He took a better stance, spreading his legs and leaning over me to kiss me deeply. 

My body did not resist his advance, and he sheathed himself inside me with ease. I had perhaps been overgenerous with my estimation of his dimensions, but despite the fact that he was smaller than the article I’d been employing, the feeling was incomparable; his bodily presence, the warmth and scent of him, made even the intense pleasure of the dildo seem to pale. Nothing could match the wonderful feeling of having a flesh-and-blood prick, hot and throbbing, buried deep inside. 

When he was certain that he was well-seated, and I comfortable, he sat up straight between my legs, tucked his hands in the crooks of my knees, and began to pierce me over and over with more ferocity. He worked his big prick in me like a stud, like a tamed brute: dutiful, never allowing me for an instant to doubt the superiority of his instrument. I cried for more without shame. 

He encouraged me to stroke my own prick at my preferred pace, so that he could concentrate all his efforts on servicing me with his own formidable staff. I squeezed and pulled at my prick, but the feeling was as nothing, just a morsel of supplementary pleasure, compared to what Watson was putting in me. When I could feel the inevitability of my orgasm, I gave him half a minute or so of warnings, pleas, and promises, and then at last my whole body ignited in a conflagration of ecstasy, and I begged him to take his own pleasure inside me at once. 

I will hold forever the memory of his sharp, helpless cry as he spent inside me, but the moment I heard it, I also knew that I would not be satisfied with that memory, but would soon demand to hear the sound again and again, like the melody of Mendelssohn's _Lieder_. The way his body trembled atop mine was immensely satisfying, and when at last he calmed and sank into the cradle of my limbs, I felt contentment unlike any I had experienced before. I felt that Watson was mine, and I his, and whilst I had entertained an inkling of this feeling before, I knew now that no one could sever that bond. 

He was still for a while, and even when I felt him stir, I wrapped my arms and legs around him to keep him close. But after a time, it became clear that we would have to separate, to wash ourselves a little and lie comfortably. As the perspiration dried on our bodies, I felt Watson’s softening prick being pushed free of me. Not to mention, the prized treasures from the British Museum would need tidying up. 

I was sore where he had serviced me, and still a-flutter in my belly when he looked into my eyes. “What a marvel you are,” he remarked. “So delightfully greedy for a nice prick. One would never guess.” 

“Indeed, not even I would have ventured such a hypothesis.” I clutched his arms, desiring just one more minute of this closeness. “Watson, I can’t help but feel regret about the time lost. I have loved you for years, but for all my powers of observation, I had no idea you felt the same.” 

“Didn’t I always tell you I was yours to use however you see fit?” He said, as he freed himself from my grip and rolled off of me with a grunt. He didn’t go far, in fact it was quite a tight squeeze, with both of us in my narrow bed, but being as were rather enamored of each other at the moment, we did not mind. 

Lying on his side next to me, his hand stroking my chest, he asked, “What made you decide to open the trunk after all?” 

I stared at the ceiling and answered honestly. “The belief that I could get away with it.” 

Watson planted little kisses along my bicep and shoulder, inquiring in the spaces in between, “And what happens if the British Museum finds out? And doesn’t give you the money for your Covent Garden tickets?” 

I let my head loll to one side, to face him, and my eyes fluttered shut. “The thought troubles me not,” I said sleepily, “for I’ve recently discovered a new way for us to keep ourselves occupied in the evenings.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> berlynn-wohl.tumblr and @berlynnwohl on Twitter for more of this sort of nonsense


End file.
